Anything For You
by Socrates7727
Summary: Harry couldn't really say he was surprised when he got the letter in the mail announcing Vernon Dursley's death. He knew exactly what to do, but, in a much more real sense, he had no idea what to do. HPDM comforty relationship fic! Aunt Petunia bashing! Mentions of underage drinking


AN I don't own HP or any of the characters! Angsty-bonding type relationship fic with happy comforting ending!

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Harry couldn't really say he was surprised when he got the letter in the mail announcing Vernon Dursley's death. Since before he could even remember, his uncle had been the walking epitome of health issues and, between his horrid obesity and his staunch refusal to so much as go for a checkup, Harry wasn't shocked to read the frilly, romanticized cause of death. _Our dear Vernon was taken from us peacefully during the night of August 27th, as his heart simply could not bear the weight of his father's passing._

That was utter bullshit. Uncle Vernon had gone on and on about his parents whenever he drank. They'd come over to the house while Harry had still been living there, and he could say with utmost certainty that the apple did not fall far from the tree and that Vernon Dursley was not even slightly devastated by his father's death. Still, Harry found himself tensing as he skimmed over the information for the memorial service.

He couldn't really believe he'd been invited. In all honesty, it had been four years since the war had ended and it had been six since he'd last seen or talked to any of his blood relatives. They'd always talked about forgetting he existed, he'd just kind of assumed they'd actually done it.

"What's that?" Draco appeared behind him, holding their respective morning drinks. Harry's was a vanilla and caramel latte, always carried dutifully in the Statue of Liberty mug they'd gotten on their first trip to the US. Draco's was black coffee with a spoonful of brown sugar—not white—in Harry's old Gryffindor mug. He took the drink, as well as the kiss on the cheek, but didn't try to hide the paper.

"A letter from my aunt, sort of." Immediately, Draco perked up in his direction. If they hadn't been living together for so long, Harry might not have noticed it tucked between the blond's casual recline or delicate sips of coffee. Those gorgeous eyes were settled on him, though, and focused.

"Oh?" That was all Draco said, because he'd learned better than to push when Harry didn't want to share. It was nice not to feel that pressure, but Harry knew he'd have to tell him eventually. No time like the present, right?

"Yeah, it's an invitation to a memorial service. My uncle died." Draco's eyes darkened a bit inexplicably, but he just took another slow drink from his mug.

"I'm sorry to hear that." His voice was completely neutral, which Harry really couldn't blame him for. He didn't talk about the Dursleys very often and, when he did, it was usually just an offhand connection to a story he was telling about himself. Draco wasn't sure how he was supposed to react to this news, so he was waiting for some kind of clue before letting anything slip. That was one of Draco's old habits that Harry could never decide if he hated.

"Don't be. He wasn't my favorite person." Behind him, he heard Draco shift on the couch and then there were hands on his waist—gentle, and warm from holding the coffee.

"No, of course not, everyone knows that that title is mine," Harry chuckled, even if his eyes never left the letter. "But he was still your uncle." He nodded, letting Draco settle against his back and tuck his chin over Harry's shoulder. Of all the people in Harry's life who had lost family, Draco was one of the only ones who had even the slightest chance of understanding the situation. Harry severely disliked Uncle Vernon. He had since he was a child, and he'd never went as far as to call that feeling hatred but it was certainly negative. Still, he felt the loss.

Tears welled in his eyes and Harry cursed them, not even sure why he was suddenly so emotional. He tried to wipe them away before they could fall. A pale hand reached around and grabbed his mug before he could spill it, setting it gently on the table and smoothing up Harry's chest. It was stupid. Why did he even give a shit that Vernon was dead? They weren't close, they definitely didn't have any kind of familial bond, but his chest was still tight. Slowly, Draco palmed his chest, just over his heart.

"Hey, breathe. It's okay, babe, I get it." And Draco did get it, at least as much as anyone else could understand something he didn't understand himself. Harry, of all people, knew that. He'd been the one to stand beside Draco as they watched his father's execution and he'd been the one to hold the blond's hand as Lucius was buried. Draco had cried with _him_, that night, not anyone else and they'd spent hours just trying to understand. Lucius had been a horrible, horrible person—but he was still Draco's father.

"Should I go?" His voice was unsteady, but neither of them commented on it. The hand on his chest continued to smooth and massage because Draco _knew _his physical response to anxiety was forgetting to breathe. Draco _knew_ his chest would seize, and that he would forget he was the one suffocating himself from the inside out. They'd done this so many times…

"Do you want to go?" Of course Draco wouldn't just give him a straight answer. He'd known that before he'd even asked the question but it still irked him. Just once, he wanted someone to just tell him which decision was the right one—but Draco wasn't like that, and he hadn't ever been. Usually, that was one of the things Harry loved about him.

"No, I don't. But I feel like I should." Draco nodded against his shoulder like he knew words wouldn't really help right now. It was a Friday morning, and it wasn't supposed to be sad like this. Fridays were _their _time. Monday through Thursday, Harry belonged to the Ministry at all hours of the day and night while Draco slaved over cauldrons and potion ingredients. On Saturdays and Sundays, they did chores and hung out with friends and were generally lazy but they were also usually social.

Fridays, though, both of them went in late. They spent the morning completely and utterly alone together, doing whatever the hell they felt like, and it was honestly the best part of Harry's week. Trust the Dursleys to ruin that.

"When is it?" Draco's voice snapped him back. His breath was warm again Harry's jaw and it smelled like freshly roasted coffee beans. Morning Draco was one of his favorite versions of his boyfriend, and he was missing it because of this stupid letter.

"Tomorrow." Behind him, Draco let out a low whistle of appreciation.

"They really didn't give you any time to think about it. What if you'd had plans?" Harry snorted. He could guess that one of the reasons his invitation was so late was because of the difficulty getting Muggle post into the Wizarding parts of Britain, but he knew that wasn't the only reason.

"I think that was their hope." Draco didn't respond, but Harry felt his disapproval in the air. Ever the aristocrat, Draco was a stickler for punctuality and polite formalities—like sending invitations with ample time to make schedule adjustments, or signing letters personally. The blond glared at the piece of paper, no doubt noticing the typed print and the lack of any handwriting or personalization.

"Tacky," he muttered, though Harry knew that was just his attempt to keep the subject from getting too depressing. He just nodded in agreement.

"And passive aggressive, but we'd be foolish to expect anything less. If I did go, would you go with me?" Instantly, Draco's arms tightened in a gentle sort of half hug from behind.

"Of course I would. I'll hex them for you, if you like." Harry chuckled, ignoring the way Draco's right hand twitched unconsciously against his hip, as if trying to reach for a wand. He knew it was only partially a joke. Draco had been hesitant to get very attached to him in the beginning, and Harry had spent months convincing him that they were in this together no matter what. The second the blond had realized that, he'd become fiercely protective. Harry didn't mind it, but he also wasn't totally sure that Draco's temperament would mix well with the Dursleys and their snide remarks.

"Yeah, we'll see. Is it okay if I think about it and let you know tonight? I don't want to waste any more of our morning on this." Draco sighed and, for a second Harry thought he might argue. But he just nodded and stepped back.

"Of course, babe, anything." The best—or possibly worst—part was that Draco meant it completely. He would do anything to help, including let Harry ignore and avoid the problem all morning instead of just making a decision, but in that moment Harry didn't really care.

"Bed?" Draco laughed, the sound barely audible and the vibrations echoing into Harry's body. That kind of laugh was his favorite, because it always felt like a secret. Like Draco was trying to hold it in, or be quiet, so no one else would know he was amused—even if they were alone—but he always let Harry feel it through some form of contact.

"We only just got up, lazy." It was true, though Harry knew he could push a little harder this time. The letter had granted him a bit of sympathy, if nothing else, and he could use that now to pressure Draco back into their bed.

"Pretty please?" He turned, snuggling his face into Draco's T-shirt as if he were about to cry. Maybe it wasn't completely true, but Harry couldn't deny that he felt unsettled and, besides, he was not going to pass up an opportunity for cuddles.

"Alright, alright, don't make that face at me I'm coming." Harry thought he heard Draco mutter something like _damn puppy dog eyes_ but he couldn't be sure. For now, he didn't mind it, though. He let all thoughts of the funeral or his relatives leave his mind as he dragged his boyfriend back into their bedroom and snuggled into their bed. Finally, just the quiet morning he'd been hoping for.

* * *

Harry was very, very stupid. Evidently, Draco knew this because there was homemade mac and cheese steaming on the table and an offering of hard vodka beside it. Predictably, he'd let work overtake his life for the twelve hours that he was on the clock, and he was only just now pausing to remember the decision he was supposed to have made. Dammit.

"Welcome home." Draco, clearly, was not even a little bit surprised that he'd put it off until now. He gave Harry a passing once over, to make sure all the limbs were still in their correct places and that the dirt wouldn't get everywhere, before beginning to dish up their plates. Harry was tired, but he still caught it when Draco gave him twice the serving of mac and cheese that he gave himself. No doubt preparing for Harry to drink himself into oblivion.

"Thanks for cooking." Draco nodded, and they ate in a comfortable silence. Two bites in, Harry reached for the vodka and Draco made no comment, though he clearly saw it. Neither of them really drank much these days—Harry had been against it from the beginning, having grown up with the monster that Vernon became with the addition of alcohol, and Draco had simply said he was tired of it. It wasn't until their first night getting drunk together, after Lucius's funeral, that Draco had finally explained that little quip.

He'd started drinking at eight years old. Even now, Harry still choked whenever he thought about that fact and he had to focus extra hard on swallowing the clump of noodles in his mouth. Eight years old… With enough funerals and enough rough nights, Harry had gathered up little snippets of stories and little pieces of memories like some kind of historian until he felt he could piece the whole picture together.

Lucius had been cruel from the start. Though they'd seemed nothing but close when Harry had first met them, there was more than enough truth in the way Draco just shattered after his death. Slowly, as if he didn't really trust it, and then all at once. It had hurt to watch because, as much as there was hurt and grief in those grey eyes, there had been much more relief. A guilty sense of security, knowing that both the protector and the threat were lying dead in the same coffin. Harry knew that guilt better than most.

He still blaunched whenever he saw how smoothly Draco could toss back shot after shot as if it was water. Secretly, he hated it, and he'd had nightmares for weeks after that first time. Images of a tiny blond boy, completely broken and taking shots of firewhiskey in a dark pantry. From what he could gather, he wasn't that far off.

It wasn't that he blamed Draco—he more than understood the motivation, and the addiction to the escape—it was that he hated himself for being so blind to it. Draco had practically been an alcoholic for most of their childhood, and Harry had never had a clue. He hated that Draco was so good at hiding it when things got bad, and he hated that their relationship hadn't come with a magic pair of glasses that could see through that exterior. Over the years, he'd gotten better at it. But, he still knew that Draco had managed to slip through his scrutiny and his interrogations more than once, preferring to isolate himself and suffer alone rather than trouble Harry.

"Slow down." Harry didn't question it, and immediately put the bottle back in the center of the table. Draco was calmly eating his mac and cheese, watching him with mild interest, but Harry knew better by now. He knew that the blond was very carefully monitoring his every move. Between the two of them, Draco was the expert on alcohol so Harry never argued whenever Draco told him to slow down, or even to stop. His goal wasn't to keep Harry sober, after all, it was just to keep him alive.

"You want some?" Here, Harry actually did wait for an answer. Though he'd learned a lot of Draco's other quirks, the blond was still virtually unpredictable when deciding whether or not to join Harry in his drunkenness. He could have flipped a coin and had just as good of a chance at guessing.

"No, not tonight." Secretly, Harry wondered sometimes if Draco said no because he feared a relapse, or if he felt like he had to babysit Harry. It was just so unpredictable… He knew Draco wouldn't tell him if it got bad, and that alone made him question every motive the blond had.

"I think we should go." Harry watched, waiting for that statement to have some sort of impact, but Draco just nodded.

"Okay." He said nothing about Muggles, or about scheduling. There were no offhand remarks about Dudley, or pointed questions about the scars that Harry had yet to explain. They both had their limits, and this was Harry's.

"Okay?" Draco met his eyes and took a slow sip of his water.

"Okay."

* * *

There were petunias everywhere. That was the first thought that registered in Harry's morning haze, and it seemed to be the dominant observation in Draco's mind as well. White ones, red ones, purple ones… It was like the whole service was a tribute to Aunt Petunia's suffering rather than to Uncle Vernon's death. Harry couldn't really say he was surprised, though.

They stepped into the reception hall, and immediately a hush fell over the room. He couldn't tell if it was because people somehow recognized him, or because Draco always drew that kind of reaction in Muggle crowds. Either way, the attention was clearly on them and it wasn't long before Aunt Petunia found them.

"Harry, so glad you found time in your busy schedule to come show your support. And you brought a guest, I see." Harry stiffened, half waiting for the pinch of Uncle Vernon's grip on his arm or to be hauled off to his cupboard. Neither came, though, and he felt a subtle, direct warming charm hit his side. Draco's way of comforting him without touching him.

"Aunt Petunia, this is Draco Malfoy." Immediately, his aunt turned up her nose at what must have sounded like a Wizarding name—which it was. Draco's shoulders tensed, but he said nothing.

"A pleasure, Mr. Malfoy." She didn't offer her hand, and Draco didn't try to take it.

"I'm sure it is, Mrs. Dursley." The tension was thick in the air but, for once, Harry didn't really want to hide from it. That instinct was still there, of course, and simmering in his gut like a bad potion but it wasn't strong enough to actually make him move, which was progress. Instead, he merely stood and watched the two.

He knew this had to be killing Petunia, because she couldn't decide if Draco's obvious wealth meant that she should try to impress him, or if his Wizarding name meant she should spit on him. Draco, he could guess, didn't much care which she chose and was instead mulling over every snippet of information Harry had ever given him on the Dursleys. His boyfriend was slow to anger, generally, but could decimate an entire room full of people if given the motivation. Ideally, he wanted to avoid that.

"So, Harry," Petunia finally tried, turning away from Draco without making a decision. "You're an adult now. I trust you've graduated?"

"Yes," he mumbled, forcing the syllable through gritted teeth. There was no need to go into the war, or eighth year, or even anything about Hogwarts. Petunia didn't care, and he would only hurt himself by trying—and he knew that, really, he did—but that didn't stop the urge. She would only throw it back in his face if she knew, though.

"Well, I would congratulate you but you always did thrive on doing the bare minimum, didn't you? Our dear Duddy graduated from Millbrooks this last year and already has a job lined up. He got his Masters, such a hard worker, and his starting salary is already six figures. What is your compensation like?" Harry could feel the waves of anger coming off of Draco, and he was starting to regret coming at all. He'd underestimated the sheer hostility that his aunt would have towards him and he could only imagine seeing his cousin now.

"Actually, Aunt Petunia, since you asked, neither Draco nor I need to work. We would be bored, though, so I work for our government's law enforcement and Draco brews rare, specialty potions." Petunia frowned, her face creasing in the corners the way it used to whenever Harry set the table the wrong way. The room was filled with people, Harry noticed, but they all seemed too far away to reach, as if they were avoiding Petunia too. Figured.

"You're a cop? Well, I have to say I didn't see you that way but I suppose I can't fault you for it. Though why they would allow you to enforce rules when all you ever do is break them, I couldn't say. I'm also not completely certain what your friends occupation has to do with my question, or with your income status. Jacob, was it?" Beside him, the blond flashed her a sickly sweet smile. It reminded him so much of Narcissa that Harry almost did a double take, but then those beautiful pale lips were moving.

"Draco, actually, but you can call me Mr. Malfoy if Draco is too hard to remember." That was all he said—which, frankly, impressed Harry because he'd expected Draco to go off on her the second he had a chance to—but it was more than enough to fluster Petunia. She gaped like a fish out of water, and then turned back to him.

"How dare you bring such an insolent _child_ to our family's celebration of life! A stranger who dares to insult me on a day when we've already lost so much… You should be ashamed of yourself, Harry." That was it. He could have handled the insults and he could have politely ignored her hidden insults but that was the last straw.

_You should be ashamed of yourself_. Harry was sick of being ashamed, he was sick of hiding, and he was done letting them treat him like shit. He took half a step back, and reached for Draco's hand—their signal, telling Draco it was okay to reveal their relationship. Because Harry needed him.

Immediately, the blond straightened and stepped closer, wrapping an arm protectively around his waist while those steely grey eyes settled on Petunia. Up close, he towered over the woman and Harry couldn't believe he hadn't noticed that before. The arm around his waist squeezed in a half hug, which he greatly appreciated. They were drawing the attention of almost everyone there.

"Actually, _Petunia_, you should be ashamed of _yourself_. First of all, you sent Harry the invitation _yesterday_ so you're lucky that he's even here. Secondly, maybe I was raised in a stuffy, overly polite household but isn't it common practice to be _kind_ to one another during hard times? Like, oh I don't know, a funeral? Call me unobservant, but you don't seem very supportive." The room was silent now, listening to the blond because he'd put on his Malfoy voice and it was impossible not to give him your full attention. Harry knew from experience. But, Draco was far from done.

"While we're at it, _Petunia_, the proper way to greet a guest is by saying 'it's a pleasure to meet you' not spitting the word 'pleasure' out of your mouth like you ate something rotten, and then expecting to be liked. You act like you're the epitome of class and grace, yet you don't know even the simplest of things. For instance, did you know that it's considered incredibly rude to ask about one's income, or to share that information about others?"

"I didn't—"

"It's _also _quite rude to interrupt someone," Petunia was bright red now, and seething, but Draco looked like a snake about to go for the jugular. "It's rude to insult your family members and their guests, it's rude to gloat but especially when the accomplishments aren't even yours, and it's frankly _uncivilized_ to yell and play the victim in front of large crowds. I happen to care very deeply about your nephew, and we are here as a _favor_ to you. I will not stand here and—"

Instantly, Draco stopped. Harry's hand tingled where he'd touched the blond's arm, but Draco gently closed his mouth and calmly turned to him as if nothing was happening. It was kind of unnerving, honestly, but now wasn't the time. Instead, Harry just squeezed a bit and nodded that he could take over. He could, right?

"Aunt Petunia," he said quietly. Draco nudged him a bit with one arm.

"Aunt Petunia," he tried again, trying to make his voice sound as if he were speaking to a delinquent first year. "And Dudley, as I presume you're somewhere nearby listening. All three of you were horrible to me as a child and I don't want to speak ill of the dead but I was hoping that things had changed. You are still my blood relatives, even if you are rude and unwelcoming. I came here to mourn the loss of my uncle, not to be insulted by the woman who raised me. Thank you for the invitation, but Draco and I are clearly not welcome here so we'll be leaving now."

He took Draco's hand, trying to ignore the way his own was trembling and hoping that the blond wouldn't notice. They made it to the door before the screaming started, and then it was Draco against the masses as a massive game of tug-o-war raged between them two sides. Draco won with a well timed, softly mumbled 'depulso'. That was the wrong move though, apparently, because then the screaming narrowed into one word, and it was all Harry could hear.

_Freak_.

_Freak_.

_Freak_.

Draco got them out and to an Apparition point, somehow, but all Harry could seem to comprehend was that word. He hadn't been called that since… fourth year, probably. _Freak_. God, he was a freak wasn't he? If it wasn't because of the wizard thing, or the gay thing, then it was the savior of the fucking world thing. He couldn't just be normal. Was 'freak' somehow in his DNA?

"Hey, baby, are you with me?" Instantly, Harry shot up off the bed. When had they gone to bed? It didn't matter, Draco only ever called him baby when something was very wrong and he was instantly on full alert. Had someone been chasing them? Was someone at the funeral from the Ministry? Was Draco hurt? Merlin, if he was—

"Hey, hey, it's okay. Look at me, baby, we're okay. We're home now. Do you want to sit up and get some tea?" As good as that sounded, Harry shook his head. Tea wouldn't help with this. He wasn't sure that anything would, honestly, but he buried his face into the pillow and tugged at Draco's hand. They'd been together long enough, and it wasn't a complicated signal, so Harry soon found himself joined under the covers by a fully clothed blond. He curled wordlessly into Draco's chest, not caring if he smeared tears all over the white dress shirt.

"I love you, baby." Harry tried to hear those words for what they were—a reassurance, a promise, a routine—but all he could hear was Petunia's voice.

"Am I a freak?" For the first time in his life, no one jumped to reassure him and correct him at that question. Draco lay quietly for a moment, then kissed his forehead, and then continued to stroke his hair. Harry thought he hadn't heard, at first, but then he took a deep breath.

"Yeah, I think you are," His entire body just collapsed. "You're weirdly good at Quidditch, at least, and you somehow made it through school despite never paying attention or doing any of the work. You managed to be the only person in history who is a murderer, and _celebrated for it_. You're also the only person I know who can put up with my bullshit, which is a pretty freaky phenomenon if I do say so myself. But, hey, at least you're not a Death Eater."

"_Former_ Death Eater." Draco shrugged, but he wasn't fishing for pity or compliments. They were past that by now, anyways, and instead Harry tried to hear the honesty. It was difficult.

"I just want to be normal." An almost imperceptible sigh ghosted over his skin and, for a second, Harry thought Draco had fallen asleep. He hadn't though, and made that clear when he pulled Harry into a slow kiss.

"You want to be straight?" He laughed, even if he was kind of crying and also kind of serious, because coming from his boyfriend of three years that sounded ridiculous. Even if it was just a tiny bit true.

"Good, I'd be disappointed if you did. Besides, baby," Again that 'baby' that said Draco's light, playful tone did not mean that he wasn't taking it seriously. "You've known me for over a decade. Have you ever once seen me with someone 'normal'?" He shook his head, burying his face back into Draco's chest in lieu of answering out loud. Of course it helped—Draco always helped. He wasn't cured, and he was by no means steady or secure in himself, but he was better.

"You want tea? Or some food, maybe?" Harry smiled a bit, even if he kept it hidden, because feeding him was Draco's way of being a mother hen. He shook his head, though, and found one pale hand with his own.

"No, just lay with me, mkay?" Draco kissed his forehead before spelling the curtains closed.

"Of course, baby, anything."

* * *

Thanks so much for reading! Reviews mean the world to me!


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